


First/Last Kiss

by ronsenburg



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Awkwardness, Dorks in Love, End Game Spoilers, Fluff, M/M, basically just kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 15:59:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11695047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronsenburg/pseuds/ronsenburg
Summary: Two kisses, one set in Lestellum and a second in the world of ruin.





	First/Last Kiss

The sun is just beginning to set over Lestallum when Ignis first pulls the Regalia into a parking spot at the gas station just outside of town. The sounds and smells of the city rush over him immediately; a mixture of petrol, cooking foods, and discarded trash muddling together into a bouquet that is uniquely urban and strangely comforting in its familiarity. After so long on the road, the bustle of the city is comparatively relaxing, a white noise lullaby of hundreds of voices and rumbling motors reminding Ignis that, at least for the moment, they are safe. He tries not to think of Insomnia as he cuts the motor. The task is more difficult than he anticipates.

Gladiolus is first out of the car, slamming the door behind him with more force than necessary as he bounds off across streets without so much as a backwards glance. Ignis knows that he will be headed to the hotel in search of Iris, anxious to confirm her safety with his own eyes. He can’t say he blames the other man. 

Noctis yawns loudly as he exits the back seat after Gladio, stretching his hands above his head. “You guys coming?” he asks, in a nonchalant tone Ignis knows is feigned. Iris may be an Amicitia in name, but a childhood spent in close proximity within the citadel has made her something of a sister to Noctis as well.

“I’ll join you shortly,” Ignis replies, locking the car door behind them before turning back to the Prince, “There are some supplies I’d like to restock first.”

Much to Ignis’s surprise, it is Prompto’s voice that responds first.

“I’ll come with,” he says, bouncing slightly on his toes with visible enthusiasm, “I wanna get some shots in this light.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Noctis rolls his eyes and turns, waving a hand over his head in parting gesture. “Don’t take forever.”

Ignis sighs with some exasperation before turning to Prompto. “Shall we go?”

Prompto is remarkably good company. They spend the remainder of the evening weaving between stalls at the market, the steady stream of idle conversation broken only by Ignis’s expert haggling with vendors and the occasional selfie. Prompto seems somewhat calmer here, though Ignis is not sure if it is the return to the safety of civilization that has him so at ease or simply the creeping exhaustion they all feel after being on the road for so long.

“Can we check out the overlook before we head back?” Prompto asks when they have purchased the last of the curatives needed, excitement written plainly across his face, and though the bag of groceries in Ignis’s arms is far too heavy for sightseeing and the overlook is the opposite direction of the hotel, he agrees. Gladio likes to tease that Noctis has Ignis wrapped around his little finger; Ignis rather thinks that it is Prompto, with all his puckish and eager charm, that Ignis cannot deny anything. 

When they reach the wall, Prompto rushes forward, the shutter of his camera already clicking furiously. Ignis chuckles gently and follows a few steps back. The view is certainly magnificent from this vantage, an entire valley spread before them in miniature. Ignis is sure he can see a herd of garula sprawling in the distance, so small they look almost like the tiny insects that buzz around the camp lantern at night. The sight of the disk, sparkling in the distance should be breathtaking. But somehow it is Prompto, with his face flushed from excitement, so focused on capturing the perfect shot that he almost knocks a chattering couple off their feet, that steals Ignis’s attention completely.

“Do watch where you’re going,” Ignis chides, trying in vain to disguise the amusement in his tone. 

Prompto laughs, glancing back at Ignis with a wide smile. “You’re too serious, Iggy,” he teases. Rays from the setting sun tangle in the strands of his hair until it glows gently of gold at the edges and his eyes, normally a serene shade of blue, are cast a vivid violet. Ignis can feel something in his chest tighten involuntarily at the sight, a small loss of control that he has been finding more frequent as of late. Prompto returns to his photos, completely unaware that Ignis has momentarily forgotten to breathe.

“Got it! Wanna see?”

Ignis nods and steps forward. Rather than simply passing the camera, Prompto moves even closer until he is standing just in front of Ignis, the camera tipped up slightly so he can better see the tiny screen. Prompto is exceedingly talented, managing to manipulate the focus and exposure in such a way that the photo captures elements of the horizon that Ignis could not have noticed even when observing the same scene. The fabric of Ignis's shirt brushes against Prompto’s shoulder as he leans closer, attempting to better see the image Prompto is describing. Without hesitation, Prompto relaxes into the touch, leaning back just the slightest until his shoulder settles against Ignis’s chest.

It is… comfortable. Too much so. Logic tells Ignis that he should not allow himself this indulgence, that he is overstepping bounds and threatening the dynamics of the group, but a lifetime of self-regulation is exhausting, and Ignis feels himself slipping slowly away from himself with a quiet inevitability. He cannot ignore the warmth of Prompto’s body that spreads slowly through him, and though he is not typically the type to blush, the slight flush to his face is difficult to deny. They stay like that for some time as Prompto scrolls through the pictures he has taken, cheerfully describing the key elements of each shot. Ignis interjects questions from time to time, but it is primarily Prompto who speaks, his voice lulling Ignis into a rare state of contentedness. For a moment, he forgets that they are standing at a public landmark on the edge of a crowded city, in a kingdom in the throes of war. For a moment, there is only the setting sun, the evening breeze, and Prompto. Ignis glances down and catches a tiny smile playing at the edge of Prompto’s lips and is suddenly overcome with the thought of leaning in to kiss them.

Abruptly, the landscapes of Lestellum vanish on the screen, and Ignis finds a photo of himself from the day before filling the display. He remembers the setting in detail; they had been inadvertently caught in the rain during a hunt that Noctis insisted they complete, so drenched by the time the beast was dead that returning to the regalia immediately would have done little but damage the interior. In the photo, Ignis has removed his glasses, attempting to clean them on the edge of a damp shirt while drops of rainwater collect on the tips of his flattened hair, precariously close to falling into his eyes. Ignis remembers having been vaguely annoyed that he had not been wearing his jacket and somewhat worried that one of them might catch cold, but his face in the photo reflects none of that. He looks pensive, perhaps, but peaceful. It seems rather unlike him.

“O-Oh,” Prompto stammers, immediately flushing, “I forgot about this one.” 

“It’s a good shot,” Ignis comments, smiling gently when Prompto glances up in his direction.

“Yeah… thanks,” Prompto laughs nervously and jabs the button to advance the image more forcefully than is probably necessary, only for another picture of Ignis to fill the frame, this time mid-strike in battle. Prompto makes a small, embarrassed noise and pushes the button again. There is a picture of Ignis drawing his daggers in a flurry of green sparks. Ignis laughing with Gladiolus around the fire at camp. Ignis across the front seat of the car, smiling softly in the pale, cloud-filtered light.

Prompto’s voice has gone silent by the time Ignis steps back. He bites his bottom lip nervously, fingers fidgeting with the controls of the camera and Ignis frowns, regarding Prompto with some confusion. 

For a moment, neither of them speak.

“This is a little weird, isn’t it?” Prompto asks finally, glancing up at Ignis with uncertain eyes.

Ignis doesn’t reply immediately, too busy classifying the possible reasons that he might be featured so prominently in the Prompto’s work. He finds himself hoping for one explanation in particular, though it is ill-advised and by far the most absurd of them all. “I confess, I’m not sure what to make of this,” he acknowledges finally, his tone evenly measured despite the rapid beating of his heart.

Prompto’s fidgeting becomes even more pronounced. His mouth opens briefly before closing again with a soft click, followed by a frown that appears to be the product of wild indecision. Were this any other situation, Ignis might be amused. Instead he watches Prompto struggle with a raised eyebrow and an anticipation that must be almost palpable.

When Prompto _does_ manage to speak, it’s in a rush of words that tumble from his lips so quickly that, for a moment, Ignis doubts what he’s heard. “It’s just, you look really cool all the time, you’re totally amazing at everything without even trying, and I like…” Prompto hesitates again, and Ignis reminds himself to breathe. “I like taking pictures of you?”

“I see,” Ignis murmurs, frowning. “In that case, feel free to take as many as you’d like.” He does not mean to sound disappointed, but the feeling rises regardless, slipping unbidden into his tone.

Prompto’s head lilts sideways at the sound, confusion evident in his face. Ignis counts the beats of silence as they regard each other before suddenly Prompto’s eyes widen. Realization dawns across his face, slowly rearranging his features from concern to surprise, and Ignis turns away, feeling incredibly foolish.

“Iggy?” Prompto tries, but Ignis does not stop, headed instead toward the deposited bag of groceries. He can hear the shuffle of Prompto’s steps hurrying behind him. “Ignis, wait!”

Ignis is aware of the feeling of Prompto’s fingers sliding around his wrist, the skin of his hand more rough and calloused than Ignis would have imagined. The grip is gentle, light enough that Ignis could wrest his arm from Prompto’s without much effort should he chose, but instead Ignis stops, turning to face Prompto with what he hopes is his typical mask of indifference. With his hand still circling Ignis’s wrist, Prompto steps forward tentatively until he is close enough that Ignis can count the individual freckles dusted across his nose and cheeks. Ignis stands motionless, watching the skin between Prompto’s brows furrowing into a gentle frown as he searches Ignis’s face. 

He wonders if Prompto can feel his pulse quicken under the pads of his fingers at his nearness. 

Slowly, enough that it is nearly agonizing, Prompto leans in, pushing up onto the balls of his feet until he is nearly level with Ignis’s face. He hesitates, as though he is still expecting Ignis to stop him, as though it is a mistake that he has been allowed to come this far. 

Once again, Ignis is reminded of duty. Dozens of scenarios crowd his mind all at once, images of negative outcomes of this encounter that could, ultimately, endanger the safety of the Prince. But Prompto’s eyelashes flutter as his eyes dart between Ignis’s gaze and lips. At this distance, Ignis can see that they are a dark gold, several shades darker than Prompto’s hair. It’s a detail he had never noticed before. Ignis exhales the breath he was not aware he was holding and closes the remaining distance between them. 

The kiss is chaste and somewhat awkward, just the barest brushing of lips, but Prompto is blushing crimson as he settles back onto his heels.

“Oh man,” he says, voice pitched too high in what could be panic or embarrassment, “I just did that, huh?”

Ignis laughs then, more freely than he remembers having laughed in some time. He can’t help himself; the situation is truly absurd. They had set out on this trip with the sole intent of delivering Noctis to his fate in Altissia. Ignis had not expected the feeling of quiet joy that steals over him now. 

Prompto watches him with a confused grin, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck nervously. “Dude, it wasn’t that bad, was it?”

“Not at all,” Ignis replies, aware that Prompto is still standing rather close, that it would be a simple matter to pull the other to him again, “Though I suppose we should discuss this.”

The sound of a phone ringing interrupts, and Prompto jumps back at the sound. A text message from Noctis fills the screen. _‘Did you guys get lost or something?’_ Ignis wonders how long they have been gone. 

“We’ve been summoned,” he comments, shutting off the display of his phone and slipping it back into his pocket. “Perhaps it can wait until tomorrow?”

Prompto nods, still grinning with a soft blush coloring the edges of his cheeks and offers Ignis his hand.

Ignis finds that he is smiling as well, a soft upturn of the corners of his mouth that he cannot will away. For once, he quiets the voices in his head that seek to plan for the next step, to set contingencies for the future. 

He takes Prompto’s hand.

*

It is rare that he and Prompto find themselves at Hammerhead at the same time.

Ignis has discovered that he is more effective at hunting alone, when he no longer needs to concern himself with sorting out the sounds of friends from that of foes. Prompto in particular is difficult, the light but constant clatter of zippers and quickly moving feet obstructing all but the most obvious of enemy movements. He finds, however, that when Prompto approaches him about a hunt, voice smiling as he places a familiar hand upon Ignis’s shoulder, that he cannot bring himself to refuse. 

Prompto drives. The silence that falls between them as they speed through the Leiden landscape is comfortable, but Ignis is certain he can feel Prompto’s eyes on him from time to time, regarding him curiously across the space of the front seat.

“Was there something you wanted to ask?” Ignis wonders aloud with some amusement.

Prompto starts, the car jerking slightly to the side in his surprise before being hastily corrected. He laughs sheepishly, and a familiar warmth fills Ignis’s chest. It has been quite some time since they have seen each other last; Ignis finds he has missed the sound more than he expected. “Just wondering if we should camp?” Prompto replies, “You know, get some rest before we take down the bad guys.”

“That might be for the best,” Ignis agrees.

Prompto slows the car before turning off onto a smaller, dirt road.

The campsite has become less elaborate over time. Gone are the chairs and playing cards, the stove and prep table. Prompto sets to work pitching their simple tent while Ignis busies himself with creating a fire, large enough to provide warmth but not so warm as to attract unwanted attention. The havens still stand against the ever increasing horde of daemons, but they can no longer wait for the dawn to leave. It is better not to attract creatures who may lay patiently in wait.

Prompto sits nearer to him than is strictly necessary as they eat, his animated hands gently brushing the side of ignis's arm when he speaks. Ignis can feel something flutter in his chest at each touch, his body angling in every so slightly towards Prompto as though he has become suddenly magnetized in his presence. If Prompto notices, he doesn’t draw attention to it. His voice, cheerful and ever enthusiastic, carries on over the soft sounds of the night and for the first time in weeks, Ignis is able to recall the warmth of the setting sun. 

When dinner is done, a heavy silence falls between them. Ignis is aware that Prompto is watching him from where he stands across the fire, uncharacteristically still in his intensity, just as he knows that Prompto is waiting for him to speak. Even after ten years of falling together in dark campgrounds and quiet hotel rooms, Prompto still hesitates, though Ignis is unsure whether it is a lack of certainty or the desire to be beckoned that stills his advances. Regardless, Ignis does not disappoint.

“Prompto, come here,” he requests with an outstretched hand, and even he is surprised how low his voice has fallen.

Prompto does not need to be told twice. Ignis can hear the soft rustling of Prompto’s clothes as he crosses the distance between them, eagerly taking Ignis’s hand and allowing himself to be pulled closer. His fingers find the side of Prompto’s face, gently feeling out the other’s features. They seem softer than Ignis remembers, his jaw slightly fuller and the sharp planes of his cheekbones now less pronounced. It suits him; Prompto has changed in the years since they first left the capital, his anxious energy slowly settling into a tempered confidence that Ignis finds alluring, though at times his heart still aches for the awkward, stumbling boy he’d first met in Insomnia all those years ago. In moments of weakness, Ignis find himself wondering what life might have been like if Noctis had not been the chosen king of prophecy. If not for the realities of this shared fate, would they have the fragile happiness they cling to now? Would they have been better off without it? It seems futile to guess.

The pads of Prompto’s fingers are rough and calloused when he reaches up, gently grasping the arms of Ignis’s glasses and pulling. Ignis can feel the soft scraping of rubber against the bridge of his nose as they are removed, can hear the delicate click of plastic as they are folded and set on the ground beside him.

“Must you always?” Ignis ask with a sigh, but the indignation in his tone is feigned.

Prompto only laughs, softly and full of breath. “Yeah, I do.”

Without the dark shades Ignis can detect a slight change in the amount of light that flickers from the fire, but more perceptible is the feeling of Prompto’s palm settling on the edge of his face, gently thumbing the outline of his scar. It is always an odd sensation, the light pressure of rough fingertips against the sensitive skin of his cheek dulling suddenly where the nerves never properly healed. It has taken years, but Ignis has learned to view the marred skin not as evidence of his past weakness, but as simply another part of himself. A part, he muses, that particularly preoccupies Prompto, who takes any opportunity given to explore the poorly healed flesh in a gesture so intimate that Ignis’s breath is momentarily stolen.

In time Prompto’s fingers are replaced with chapped lips, gently mapping the rough edges with something akin to reverence. Ignis sighs softly, his hands falling from the edges of Prompto’s face to tangle in the fabric of his shirt instead. He wants nothing more than to lift his hands, to wrap them around the back of Prompto’s neck and pull the other roughly to him, but he waits, willfully ignoring the slight trembling of Prompto’s fingers that have come to rest against his neck. Prompto’s kisses trail from his cheek to his brow to his nose, and Ignis focuses on correcting the unsteady rhythm of his breathing. Best not to rush, he reminds himself. They have the time.

But when Prompto places his lips gently against the scar that neatly intersects Ignis’s bottom lip, lingering just long enough that Ignis can feel the ragged breath against his skin, his resolve crumbles. He pulls Prompto back to him, kissing him more fiercely than he originally intends. Prompto makes a small noise of surprise that is immediately muffled as his lips soften, melting to meet Ignis. They part slightly under his own and the soft moan that escapes reverberates down Ignis's spine like electricity.

 _One New Message from Talcott_ , announces an electric voice that cuts abruptly through the still night. Prompto jumps, pulling his lips away from Ignis with some reluctance. The feel of cool air against the skin of Ignis’s flushed face is jarring and unpleasant, and he pulls Prompto back toward him.

Prompto laughs, turning his face so that Ignis’s lips find only his jaw, “Aren’t you gonna check that?” he asks, voice rough and hands still tangled in Ignis’s hair.

“I’m certain whatever it is can wait.” Ignis hums. 

But moments later another sound joins, this time the soft vibrations of a second phone against the rocky haven floor. Ignis does not stop Prompto as he untangles himself from his arms, instead frowning softly as Prompto reaches down to pick up the buzzing device.

For a moment, the only sound that fills the air is the crumbling wood of the dying fire.

“Prompto?” Ignis asks, and he cannot help the feeling of apprehension that steals over him.

Prompto swallows thickly, his tone somewhere between dread and elation when he speaks, “… He’s back.”

**Author's Note:**

> I typically like to live in my delusional fantasy land where everyone lives at the end, but I had to balance the fluff in the first half of this fic somehow, even if it _is_ just implied in the title. The first half was somewhat inspired by [ditaauraart's adorable art](http://ditaauraart.tumblr.com/post/156415988810/a-little-promnis-extra-to-this). If this looks familiar, it's probably because I've posted bits and pieces of this over at [my tumblr](http://ronsenburg.tumblr.com/) over the past month. Feel free to come hang out with me there if you'd like and thanks so much for reading!


End file.
